A Sherlock Shaped Space
by S.L. Zeiss
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. John had trouble trusting people until he met Sherlock. Now, after his alleged death, he must go to war with himself to find out who John Watson is without Sherlock Holmes.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** I'm not Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, so I don't own anything canon. But I mean, really, when you write the show/original books why would you bother posting fanfiction... disclaimers are silly. Anyway, first fic, hope you enjoy. Review if you have something to say.

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1.1

The skull sat on the mantel facing John as he gingerly stepped through the threshold, his eyes flitting across the familiar territory for the first time in several months. The dark holes where eyes once sat stared imploringly at him, giving John a peculiar feeling that he was somehow being watched.

"I won't be long," John told the skull, at once feeling ridiculous that he was talking to a chunk of bone. "I'm just here to…" his voice trailed off. In fact, John wasn't entirely sure why he was here. He knew that his therapist had told him that revisiting the apartment he had once shared with… with _him_ (he was still unable to say – or even think – his name without difficulty) would help give him a sense of closure. He knew that he hadn't returned to 221B Baker Street since that particularly dreadful night, and that there were a few personal items that he would have liked to have had over the months. But he couldn't bring himself to actually come back until… well, now.

John adjusted the pillow on his armchair, but didn't dare sit down despite the weak feeling in his leg. Even though he had been convinced that his leg wasn't _actually_ hurt, that it was simply in his head, there were some days where it bothered him to the extent of needing his cane to limp around town. On those days, he was almost embarrassed to go out in public. He often stayed home with a cup of tea and a plain beige wall in his new flat to stare at as he mulled over his grief.

The flat looked exactly the same as he remembered it, though there was a new scent. From the kitchen came a slightly putrid stench, as if an experiment had been left on the counter when it should have been refrigerated – or kept in the morgue. John wondered if Mrs. Hudson had come into the flat at all to tidy up, but decided that she probably hadn't, or else she would have cleaned the source of the smell. Maybe he would tell her about it so she could deal with it. After all, the smell would eventually reach her flat downstairs, and that wouldn't make her very happy at all.

The violin he longed to hear leaned against the far wall next to the window. He noticed that it – as well as most surfaces in the flat – was covered in a fine coating of dust. Eloquent or not, it would take a fine dusting before anyone could live here again. But with Mycroft paying the rent and Mrs. Hudson's unwillingness to sell, John doubted that anyone would be moving in anytime soon.

Endlessly happy, the glaring yellow face smiled at John from its place on the wall. From where he stood, he could see the bullet holes where it had been shot those months ago.

John's face deepened in a frown as he felt anger build inside of him. He had been furious coming home to see his flatmate shooting the goddamn wall because he was _bored_, of all things. There was nothing in this world that kept his flatmate interested other than clever cases, nothing for his flatmate to do to occupy himself in productive ways… so much so that there wasn't anything, or _anyone_, interesting enough to keep him on that goddamn roof, or on this goddamn planet.

Not even John.

His leg buckled beneath his weight, tipping him into the table and unsettling some of the dust. A noise of frustration erupted from his throat as he grabbed hold of the table to steady himself.

Why couldn't he have been enough?

There were so many questions that John hadn't been able to find answers to. He felt like he was always on the brink of tipping too far – and not being able to find anything to anchor himself.

John wondered what it would be like to be so _bored_ of this life. His fingers enclosed over his pistol and drew it. Aiming at the yellow face on the wall, John readied his weapon. He felt a thickness in his throat and a turning in his stomach – his anger was there, but he could feel waves of anguish crashing in his stomach. A storm was rising inside of him, but he couldn't find the shore.

The first shot exploded from the barrel with sound that was surprising even to John's ear. The yellow face took another hit, but the smile remained. John fired again.

Goddamn, nothing could bring this guy down. Three, four, five shots more.

A sob escaped John's lips, followed by a slight shake in his hand. He tried to compose himself – after all, he had been a soldier in the war. He had seen things, done things, tried to heal those that had had terrible things done to them – but none of that was significant now. John had his own internal war to deal with, and he wasn't sure what side he was on anymore.

The pistol turned away from the yellow face. John pressed the tip against his head in salute at the endless happiness the face held onto, even in the face of such distress and pain. The gun shook against his temple as his tremor worsened, but he stared unyieldingly at his noble foe.

"We're out of Cheez-Its."

For as long as the yellow face had been painted on the wall, John had never assumed it to have a woman's voice – and that's when he realized he had finally succumbed to mental instability. That is, until he heard the creak of the floorboards, indicating that John was no longer alone.

It took a mere few seconds for John to point the pistol at the intruder instead, and even fewer for him to aim it elsewhere. A blonde woman, early thirties, in a pair of pajama pants and a concert tee stood just inside the doorway. Her right foot – in a simple white pair of anklets – was pressed forward, though she had yet to put her full weight into it. She was clearly unsure whether or not she could take another step forward without further alarming the man with the gun.

"Sorry… am I interrupting?" she asked tentatively.

"Shit," John breathed. It was one thing for him to have a mental breakdown by himself, but quite another to involve some poor woman. But then a thought occurred to him: who the hell was she?

"I can help, if you'd like. A fresh coat of paint over the wall, or maybe new wallpaper, if that's your style. Personally, I prefer paint. Having to unpeel wallpaper is dreadful business, really…" she continued, indicating the wall the yellow face was occupying.

"I don't care about the wall," John said flatly.

"Oh, well I had just assumed you didn't fancy it, considering the amount of bullets you've put through it," she shrugged.

"Not all of them are mine," he said quietly.

A flash of confusion fell across her face. About to question it, John interrupted suddenly: "Sorry, but who the hell are you?"

"Mary Morstan, 221C," she said.

John stared at her incredulously. He vaguely remembered Mrs. Hudson saying that she could never get anyone to rent the basement flat because of the damp – but could it be that she finally managed to find someone desperate enough to take it?

"I moved in two months ago and I haven't seen or heard anyone up here before… and yet I have a hard time believing that a burglar would take a mo to shoot at walls in the midst of a heist," Mary continued. "So I think the proper question is… who the hell are _you_?"

And in that moment, this woman had nailed the question that John had been trying to figure out for himself. Without his flatmate, without… without Sherlock, who _was_ John Watson? A lonely military man with feelings he can't explain and a life unsuitable to live?

The best answer he could give Mary was this: "John. I'm John."


	2. Chapter 2

1.2

"Okay, John. Tell me more about yourself."

"This isn't a Q&A, you know," John scoffed, eyes everywhere but on his intruder. He re-positioned his grip on the pistol, keeping it pointed toward the floor.

"I'm going to keep you talking until you put down that gun," Mary shrugged. "No suicides on my watch."

John's eyes flitted to her face for a moment, but he couldn't hold her steady gaze. "I wasn't – I mean, I'm not…" The idea of committing suicide had never been his plan. He didn't _plan_ on killing himself, he just wanted it all to stop. He wanted the pain to disappear, or for Sherlock to reappear. But that wasn't going to happen and so here he was, discovered with a gun pointed at his temple.

"I'm not," he finished lamely.

Mary's eyebrow rose in disbelief, but she didn't dare counter the man with the gun. "Okay, John. If you're not, it would please me to see the gun out of your hands – I mean, my landlady won't appreciate what you've done to her wall… It's best not to be seen with the weapon at the scene of the crime, y'know?"

"Mrs. Hudson won't mind…" John knew she would – she cared when Sherlock had done it, but he thought maybe she'd let him off easy, considering... He could fix the wall, at any rate. But his grip on the gun never faltered.

"Oh, so you know Mrs. Hudson?" Mary inquired.

"I live – lived – here up until a few months ago."

"Oh. So _you're_ John Watson."

John's eyes fixed on Mary's. He poised his mouth as if trying to form a question, but in his surprise he wasn't sure what he wanted to ask. Finally, he sputtered: "How… how do you know that?"

Mary looked sheepish as she explained. "Mrs. Hudson invites me for tea, and she's mentioned her boys that used to live in 221B. She talks about you a lot, often wonders how you're doing…"

The answer of 'obviously not well' hung in the air.

Mary took a tentative step toward him. John visibly tensed, so she stopped again. "John, would you please just do this for me? Put down the gun?" she pleaded.

_Would you do that just for me?_ He cringed. John had asked that at Sherlock's grave, for him to perform one last miracle – but that miracle never came.

John looked at the gun in his hand. He thought it was strange that something so small could be so threatening – and then another thought came to him. What the hell was he doing? Pointing a gun at his own head in a moment of immeasurable grief when he was alone was one thing – his own problem – but Mary was here now. Now his problem had become her problem.

He set the gun down.

Mary took a few more assured steps, breaking the gap between them. Instinctively, she went to wrap her arm around him, but faltered partway – this wasn't her brother or a friend that was feeling down. This was a stranger who might not appreciate her touch. But Mary proceeded regardless, gently squeezing his arm. "Come along, John. I'll put the kettle on."

John was exhausted and felt little resistance to Mary's suggestion of a hot cup of tea. He felt her hand entwine around his own, gently leading him down the stairs to her flat. He was seated at the kitchen table as she poured water into the kettle. John stared at the table absently, his mind purposefully void of everything. On the table was a smattering of orange crumbs.

"Cheez-Its," he mumbled.

"Sorry?" Mary turned around to face him with a cup in her hand. Confusion was written all over her face.

"Cheez-Its. You said you were out."

"Oh. _Oh_, right. Yes, that is true. I'm sorry, did you want some? I have other crackers…"

"No, that's fine. I was just… I wondered why you told me that."

Mary set the cup down and leaned against the counter. "I read somewhere that distracting a suicidal person would help you get their attention away from the attempt," she said. "That was the first thing that came to mind."

"I'm not…"

"Right, not suicidal," she agreed. Judging by the look on her face, John could tell that she didn't believe him. "So how about you tell me about your vendetta against the wall?"

John huffed.

"Or I could call someone for you, if you'd rather talk to them. Family, friend…" she suggested. "Or a therapist…"

"Let's leave her out of it," John said miserably. He didn't know why he kept going back to his therapist. He had even been told – twice – that he should fire her. She thought she was helping him, but returning to the flat was _not_ what John needed. "It was her idea to come back."

"Well, if you don't have anyone to call, then you're stuck with me," Mary said cheerfully. The kettle whistled and she spun on the spot. John watched her as she went about making the tea, wondering what kind of deductions could have been made if… Well, if he could _observe_. The only thing he could tell about her was that she appreciated the comfort of pajamas in the evening and listened to The Beatles, if her attire held any truth.

"Milk? Sugar?"

"Just milk, thanks."

She poured milk in both cups of tea and brought them over to the table. She sat across from him and watched the steam rise from her tea. A silence fell over them and John began to feel uncomfortable. He regretted visiting the flat and shooting the wall, and even more than that he hated that he had put Mary in this situation. She seemed far too kind to deserve to be put on the spot like this.

"Look, John," Mary said suddenly, her eyes fixed on his. "I know this must be awful for you. I know I don't know you or what you're going through, but what I _do_ know – if Mrs. Hudson hasn't filled my head with tall tales – is that you're a good man in a bad place." John shifted in his seat. "You deserve more, John."

"You're right," he said quietly. "This _is_ awful – and terribly uncomfortable. I've only just met you and I'm sorry, but I can't… I can't talk about this."

"Okay, that's—"

"I should go," John went to stand up.

"No, please, John, stay—"

"I shouldn't impose on you anymore than—"

"I don't mind, honest—"

"Thanks for the tea—"

Mary stood up, pushing the chair back with an alarming sound. "John Watson, sit down and finish your tea."

Something in Mary's voice made him falter. He stared at her as he weighed his options, unsure of his immediate future. Finally, after what seemed like an endless amount of time of her staring him down, he slunk back into his seat and took a drink of tea.

"Good. Thank you," she said, suddenly sounding a little out of her element. She adjusted her chair and sat quietly, taking a sip of her drink. "So," Mary began slowly. "If you're not going to talk…" she paused as she waited for a response and was met with John's head shaking 'no'. "Okay, how about a film?"

A shrug of his shoulders seemed to indicate an agreeable stance on her offer. As she listed off the various films she owned, John wondered how his life had come to this. The past hour seemed entirely unreal; had he really brought a gun to 221B? Had he really attempted to do the unthinkable? Even when he had returned to London and had nothing to look forward to, he had never sunk this low.

'_Damn you, Sherlock'._ John thought miserably. '_How did you do this to me.'_


	3. Chapter 3

1.3

John didn't return to the flat for a while.

He often thought about his return, but more frequently he thought about Mary Morstan of 221C Baker Street. While he had felt thirty shades of discomfort at being held there, rather against his will, he looked back on it and found himself feeling oddly appreciative. John knew he hadn't been himself and whatever that stunt with his gun had been… well, he could picture an alternative ending to that scenario.

Frankly, John couldn't remember what film they had watched, but he recalled waking up on her couch the next morning to the smell of a hearty breakfast. Mary chatted away as if they were old friends, discussing the weather forecast and a recent kidnapping in London she had heard on the news. But after she had cleared the breakfast dishes away, she sat across from John and asked: "How are you feeling?"

Caught off guard, John stumbled over his words. "F-fine, I suppose. Better."

Mary considered him for a long while, as if she was uncertain that he should be let out of her sight. Finally, she clicked her tongue and finished off her tea. "John, I'm going to give you my number and I want you to call me no matter what you need, or when you need it," she said, scrounging around in a few drawers as she looked for a pad of paper she knew she had put _somewhere_.

John stared at the paper with her number when it was finally placed in his possession, and then tucked it away in his back pocket with a mumbled 'thanks'.

"I'm serious, John Watson. You even think 'oh, woe is me' and you dial that number," she advised.

That day, after he left Baker Street, John was feeling rather peculiar. The sky was a dull blue-grey with dark clouds calling for the impending rain and a rude business man pushed past John without so much as an excuse me, but neither of these things bothered him. The air smelled fresh and that was something he hadn't noticed in a while.

A hesitant thought popped into his mind, as if he was afraid to even think it in fear he was wrong. The thought was this: maybe things were starting to look up.

But the freshness in the air was washed away by the rainfall, and come the next day, John was feeling worse than he had in a while. As he lay in bed, hours after he had awoken, John longed for the possession of the gun that sat on the table in his Baker Street flat. He wished for the finality of a bullet through his troubled brain that would surely stop… well, everything: the nightmares, flashbacks, what-ifs and the why's that plagued every second of his life. There was no going back for it in case he ran into Mary again, and at this point he didn't feel like facing her. She might coerce him into another film, a cup of tea, and another night spent on her couch that would wrinkle his clothes, which would later make him seem like a participant in a one-night stand as he trudged along home.

John stared at the beige wall as his thoughts swirled in his head. A film and a cuppa didn't sound entirely like a bad idea, but despite the open invitation, he didn't want to trouble the poor woman anymore. He turned over in his bed and closed his eyes. Maybe he would face the world tomorrow.

Sometime later, John had fallen asleep. At first, his dreams were mundane; John walked through a park where he was supposed to meet his old friend, Mike, but he couldn't find him anywhere. Just as he was about to give up, a shot was fired and John instinctively dropped to the ground, rolling behind a park bench for cover. John's heart raced as he lifted his head to search for the invisible assailant , but as he lifted his head over the bench, he saw an empty sky instead of the park. Whatever he was standing on had an edge, and as he reached it, he realized he was looking down at St. Bart's from the building on the opposite side of the street. His heart dropped, knowing what was coming next – ah, yes, there was the familiar dark-haired flatmate standing on the roof. He could hear his ringtone and searched his pockets to answer, to hear his voice on the other end, but realized that he didn't have his phone on him. Looking down below, he saw himself walking toward St. Bart's, answering the phone call.

_No_, John screamed. _Let _me_ talk to him. He can't do this, he can't – I need him – I can't…_

John wanted to speak to him. He didn't know what he could say to convince his flatmate to do anything other than what he knew he was about to do, but John wanted to try – he _needed_ to try. He needed that man alive. He…

As the dark-haired man stepped off the roof, John screamed: "SHERLOCK!"

John knew that he couldn't do anything. He knew he was helpless to save him, but he had to do something. He couldn't stand there and watch this happen all over again. So John stepped off the roof.

He woke up, startled by his own voice and the sensation of his fall.

John threw his legs over the side of his bed, needing to feel the solidity of the floor beneath his feet to stop the sensation. His breathing was quick and laboured, his heart still racing. He felt the burn of tears in his eyes and fought them back. In the end, the pressure gave way and he was choked with sobs.

John Watson was a strong man, but even he needed time to grieve.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: **I wanted to say a quick thanks and send my utmost love for everyone who has subscribed to my fic. Reviews will be met with a response!

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1.4

On an altogether unremarkable Saturday morning, John received a rather remarkable phone call.

Prior to this interruption, John had been sitting in his armchair – one that was regrettably not as comfortable as the one back in 221B – contemplating the day as he watched mindless crap telly. The phone startled him out of his reverie, causing the soldier to jump at the noise. By the third ring, John had put the phone to his ear.

"Hello?"

"John, I need your help."

"Greg," John let out the breath he was holding. For a moment he had thought it might be a familiar low, velvety voice to on the other end – though this wishful thinking could only lead to disappointment, he couldn't help himself. "What do you mean?"

The Detective Inspector's voice dripped with desperation. "I need your help on a homicide case."

"What help could I possibly be," John sighed. The line went silent. "Greg?"

"Look, I know I shouldn't be calling you about this right now, but once again I find myself out of my league and without a lead. I know you're not Sherlock," John cringed at the name. "But you were always with him on his cases. You know how he thinks." Greg took a deep breath. "I know this is a long shot, but could you please just come down here and see if anything jumps out at you?"

John had quite enough of things jumping – people included – but he found himself agreeing to help.

After the call ended, John went to find a pair of socks. He never seemed to wear socks anymore. As he slipped on a pair, he began feeling overwhelmed. He couldn't help Greg on this case. Who was he to even try and be anything like Sherlock? John wasn't nearly as intelligent or quick on his feet and he certainly didn't know two-hundred and forty three types of tobacco. He couldn't do this. Not alone.

And that's all he ever was anymore – alone. John Watson, the lonely doctor.

John dropped his sock. That wasn't entirely true – he didn't _have_ to be alone.

John searched the pockets of jeans he had worn in the previous week until he found a crumpled piece of paper that belonged to Mary Morstan of 221C Baker Street. The number written on it was still legible – he was glad he hadn't bothered to do laundry yet – but as he dialed it, his stomach dropped. What if this was above what Mary was offering him, or what if she said no, or was busy, or…

Suddenly feeling very self-conscious about his calling, John was about to hang up when he heard her voice on the line: "Hello?"

"Mary," he said quietly, torn between feeling glad that she picked up and wishing she hadn't.

The line was quiet for a moment. "John?" she finally asked. "Is that you?"

John nodded his head. "Yes –"

"Are you okay?"

He almost laughed. John didn't think he'd ever be okay, he – _Oh_. He heard voices in the background. "I'm sorry, am I interrupting?"

"No, John, not at all," Mary said quickly. "What's wrong?"

John paused – he wasn't entirely sure how he was going to ask this. She would want explanations and he wasn't sure he could give her that right now. "Can you go with me somewhere?"

"Of course."

Her immediacy surprised John. "A-are you sure? I don't want to pull you away from…"

"Don't even finish that sentence. My sister and her fiancé dropped by and if there's one thing I don't need right now is a happy reminder that my younger sister has her life together more than I do," Mary said, her voice low so as if to hide her words from her guests. A little more brightly, she asked: "Where do you need me?"

"I'll swing by your flat," John said hesitantly. He didn't particularly feel like being anywhere near Baker Street, but right now he needed Mary.

"Okay, John. I'll see you soon."

John picked up his dropped sock and shoved it on his left foot before heading out to hail a cab. He wondered what Sherlock would have thought about John attempting to solve a case without him, or what he would have thought about him helping the team that doubted Sherlock and smeared his good name.

As John ducked inside a cab and gave the driver an address, he decided that it didn't matter what Sherlock would have thought. He and Greg had made peace, and John was going to help the friends he had left. If Sherlock had a problem with it, he could come back and tell John himself.

The cab pulled up outside of the Baker Street flat and he saw Mary standing outside, waiting. She looked a little anxious, but as she saw John's face as he got out of the cab, the anxiety flickered away and was replaced by a smile.

"Hello, John."

"Mary," he answered. He stood facing her for a moment, wanting to explain something, to help her understand, or to… well, he wasn't quite sure what he wanted. "I… want to thank you," he started out uncomfortably.

"Thank me for what, John? I haven't done anything yet," she said. "But I take it you didn't want me to accompany you back to Baker Street..." John shook his head. "So where are we off to?"

"A crime scene."

Mary's smile widened as she was about to laugh, but the serious look on John's face made it fade away. "Are you serious?"

"Does that frighten you?"

Mary studied John's face while she thought about it. After a moment, she said: "No. I think it's rather exciting."

John's lips twitched into an almost-smile.

"Unless you're the one who committed the crime."

John laughed.

"John, do I need to be worried about this?" John opened the cab door for her, but as she got in, she tried reading John's face without much luck. "Is there something I should know?" He closed the door and scooted to the opposite side of the cab without answering. She began to feel anxious again, and if there was one thing that anyone should know about Mary, it was this: when she felt anxious, she craved comfort food.

"Did you at least bring Cheez-Its?"


	5. Chapter 5

1.5

Mary spent an anxious, snack-free hour trying to pry answers out of John's sealed mouth. She could see that his unwillingness was not for a want of confusing the poor woman, but because the answers would be painful for him. So after a while, Mary dropped the subject.

The familiar flashing blue lights of three police cars drew the cab to the edge of the road. Several officers milled about, stretching down a long, narrow field surrounded by woods on either side. At the sight of John without his dark-haired companion, a whisper made its way through the officers.

"Didn't expect to see you here," Sargent Donovan said hesitantly.

"I've been invited," John replied. While forgiveness came easily in regards to Lestrade, John had a harder time with Donovan. Maybe it was because she had always given his best friend a hard time, or maybe it was because of her idiotic doubts that, in the end, caused…

"And who's this? Bit odd to bring a date to a crime scene, isn't it?" Donovan interrupted John's thoughts.

Flustered by the idea of Mary as his date, he mumbled a few ineligible words as he tried thinking of a reasonable excuse for bringing her here. "She's my, uh, colleague," John sputtered.

"Friend," Mary said quickly, holding her hand out to Donovan. "Mary Morstan."

"Sargent Donovan. I'll take you to Lestrade," she said with a knowing smile that irritated John.

The treeline was roped off – not that it was entirely necessary, as there were no public citizens to keep out an hour into the countryside – and as they neared, Lestrade motioned them to join him on the other side. "Good to see you, John," he said as he eyed Mary. "And who's this?"

"Mary Morstan," she said before John could make another awkward introduction attempt.

"Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade," he said as he shook her outstretched hand. Lestrade eyed the pair for a moment with a hint of a smile. "Is it mandatory to bring a companion to a crime scene?"

In Mary's confusion, she glanced from Lestrade to John and back again as if trying to piece together something she was missing. "I'm sorry, what—"

"It's a very Sherlock thing to do, that's all," he shrugged. He noticed John's pained look and cleared his throat, realizing his mistake. "Eh, shall we look at the body, then?"

Mary tucked the name away to ask about later as something told her this wasn't the time nor place for it. She grabbed John's arm and, as they followed Lestrade into the woods, she whispered: "A real body? As in… this is a genuine homicide?"

"I wasn't kidding about this being a crime scene," John said wearily, wondering if this was too much for her.

"No," Mary breathed, glancing around the woods. "No, I guess you weren't."

"We got a call that said a couple of teens found a small plastic container in Trafalgar Square," Lestrade said as they walked. "A geocache."

John was perplexed. "A what?"

"Geocache. Y'know, people hide little containers – usually with a tiny treasure and a logbook – and record its location on a website or app," Mary replied. "People search for it as a hobby. It's treasure hunting for the 21st century."

"Okay, but what does that have to do with anything?"

"Inside the container was a severed finger."

Mary's face scrunched up in disgust. "Worst treasure ever," she said.

"Not only that," Lestrade continued. "But when we searched the geocache online, the description says 'first in a series'. We were expecting to find other limbs, but the subsequent cache led us here." He stopped and pointed toward a fallen tree, where underneath, half-hidden, laid the body of what John guessed was a young Caucasian woman in her mid-20s. While Mary simply stared at the body from afar, John took a pair of gloves from Lestrade and kneeled beside the body.

"She's missing the ring finger on her left hand," John observed.

"Matches the one found in Trafalgar Square."

"Multiple lacerations on the body, the cuts look fairly jagged…" John thought aloud. He wondered what his flatmate could deduce from that alone. "Maybe… I mean, the person who did this probably didn't have much experience, or was using a dull blade. Likely used a kitchen knife?" he guessed.

"Good, what else?" Lestrade prodded.

John viewed the rest of the body before taking the gloves off and stepped back toward the others. "The coroner could be more exact, but it looks like she bled out."

"Bled out?" Mary asked in surprise. "There doesn't seem to be a lot of blood. Wouldn't there be more? Dried on her skin or stains on her clothes?"

The men looked at each other, then at the victim's body. "That's… that's true," Lestrade said after a moment. "So how did the murderer manage to lacerate the body without making a mess?"

John was silent as he thought, but he couldn't imagine a scenario that made sense of this. It was Mary who finally moved in for a closer inspection of the body. "Look at her makeup. Much of it's been smudged – obviously she doesn't use waterproof – but she was wearing quite a bit of it. It doesn't match the clothes she's wearing at all – in fact, the clothes don't match themselves, top to bottom – these jeans don't even fit properly," she noted. "But she's wearing these beautiful gold earrings," Mary said in awe.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Lestrade asked.

"A young girl like herself wearing that kind of makeup, and these earrings? She obviously intended to have a night on the town… but it doesn't make sense. She wouldn't be seen wearing these clothes – she should have been dressed to impress," Mary answered. "Someone must have changed her clothes after she was murdered." John and Lestrade looked at Mary with a sense of wonder, but it made her doubtful. "Right? I mean, that would explain why her clothes aren't stained… Because maybe… maybe the murderer cleaned her up."

Lestrade shrugged. "It's plausible, but why would the murderer do that? Why clean her up, change her clothes?"

"Make it more difficult to identify her?" Mary suggested.

"Well, hold on. If there was so much blood, it should be at the crime scene," John touched the foliage around the body. "But there's not much blood. She wasn't killed here. The murderer must have moved her."

"Cleaned her up so she wouldn't ruin the upholstery in his Murder Machine," Lestrade's voice dripped with sarcasm.

From behind them, they could hear the crunching of forest debris as one of the officers neared. "Excuse me, sir, but the coroner has arrived," he said.

"Thank you," he said to the officer. "Well, John. I guess we'll see if your theory's correct. I'll give you a call if I need anything else," Lestrade said. After a short pause, he added, "And thanks for coming, John."

As they retreated to the field and up to the cab, Mary was visibly bubbling over with unasked questions. John was feeling rather weary. He couldn't help but think about Sherlock, about what sort of deductions he would have made about the body, and if they were even on the right track. John was painfully aware of his absence, but he knew he couldn't retreat within himself to hold off the pain. Mary was here – here for him, in fact – and he owed her some explanations.

"You get one question," John sighed. That was all he could handle right now. "Make it count." _But don't ask me about him, _he thought.

Mary thought long and hard about what question she was going to ask. Finally, she settled on, "Are you hungry?"

A flicker of a smile snuck onto John's face as he remembered the many times he and Sherlock had finished a case and went for dinner. If nothing else, John appreciated the familiarity of events. For old time's sake, his answer was this: "Starving."


	6. Chapter 6

1.6

John kept his guard up as he waited for the questions he was certain would make their way out of Mary's mouth. It wasn't until hours after they had left the crime scene, finished several slices of pizza between the two, and had gone for a leisurely stroll around London that John finally relaxed. He found that he rather enjoyed Mary's company and the incessant chatter that distracted him from his wandering mind.

Somewhere within the conversation, the fact that neither of them had ever been on the London Eye came up. With nothing else in their agenda for the evening, Mary convinced him that they should go together. Two tickets and a short wait later, they were boarded on one of the capsules and on their way up.

The sun was setting over London and it cast a pinkish glow on everything it touched. Mary turned back to look at John and, in that moment, he couldn't help but think how beautiful she looked. "What, are you bored?" she asked, misinterpreting his expression. "We could have gone to the roller disco."

Giving her an incredulous look, John said: "Do I look like the roller disco type?"

"You could grow an afro," Mary shrugged.

He chuckled as he crossed the distance between them, until they were standing side by side. "Trust me, I would not look good in an afro."

After a moment of scrutiny, she nodded her head appreciatively. "You're right. You look good the way you are," she concluded. Her comment caught John's attention and he searched her eyes for the hint of interest that would mean an underlining message in her comment. John usually had luck grabbing the ladies' attention, but for some reason, he didn't have a great track record for maintaining relationships. That was something he could never wrap his mind around... what was he doing wrong?

John noticed that her lips shined with a fine layer of lip chap. He also noticed that they were awfully inviting. He slowly leaned in, parting his own lips – but he was cautious, as if waiting for her to push him away. As she gave no sign of doing so, his confidence gave him a boost of speed and he went for it – only to, at the very last moment, have his lips brush against her blonde hair as she hung her head forward. A soft sigh was released from his mouth in disappointment. But his disappointment was no match for his sudden state of shock by Mary's next words.

"I can't compete with Sherlock."

John pulled back, his face contorted with confusion. In their time together, he had never once mentioned his best friend to her. He couldn't bear to. And on top of that, he didn't see how that had anything to do with them right there, high in the London sky, moments away from making a connection deeper than whatever sort of relationship they already had. Finally, John found his voice: "How – er, what do you mean?"

Mary pulled her head up enough to look him in the eyes. "You know what I mean," she said softly.

"No, I don't think I do," he said, his brows furrowing as a hint of anger tinged his confusion. He folded his arms across his chest. Mary had carried herself with a sort of confidence in every situation they had been in together, from interrupting John's moment of weakness to examining a mutilated body. She had held herself together, unfaltering, and never had he noticed her look uncomfortable – until now.

"John, I-I know about Sherlock Holmes. Mrs. Hudson likes to talk about her boys, remember?" Mary watched his face carefully. "I realize this isn't a great time to talk about it," she said, gesturing to the other twelve or so people who were along for the ride. "But I don't want to complicate things for you."

"Complicate things?" John laughed bitterly. "My life is surprisingly uncomplicated right now. In case you haven't noticed, there's not a lot going on."

"But there is," she insisted. "You're grieving."

"Don't tell me how I'm feeling," he warned.

"Don't hold a pistol to your temple," she retaliated.

The two stared each other down, spouts of anger felt on both sides. After a few heated minutes, John glanced away, breaking the tension. Mary took a breath and calmed herself.

"Look, John, my point is that I don't want you to rush into anything right now. I know what I am."

"What you are? What the hell does that mean?"

"A rebound," Mary said evenly.

In his frustration, John slammed his hand against the glass wall of the capsule, causing several others to look over in alarm. He mumbled a few apologies. "You are not," he started, stopping as he tried to keep his voice level. "You are not a rebound."

On this, Mary disagreed. "John, you're grieving the person that meant the most to you. If I'm wrong, stop me," she paused, but John continued to stare stonily out the window. "You're trying to fill this void with something – or someone – so you can try and forget about him. To replace him."

"Nobody could ever replace Sherlock," John whispered.

Mary shook her head. "And I'm not trying to. You need to remember him, John. Don't ever forget him."

John leaned sadly against the wall. "That's the trouble," he said. "I can't."


	7. Chapter 7

1.7

There are no good places to have an argument, but there are several that contend for the worst. One of which includes being suspended in a capsule high above London.

John had stormed off to the opposite side, leaving Mary to watch his retreating back in uncomfortable silence. She didn't know what he wanted of her, but now wasn't the right time to start… well, Mary could only guess what his intentions were. And she couldn't be sure they were entirely wholesome. But she _could_ be sure that, whatever those intentions were, this was not the right time for them.

Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a phone. As she mindlessly flipped through her apps in search of a cure for her boredom, Mary began to wonder if John would come around before the ride ended. A glance his way made her heart sink; his crossed arms and tense shoulders didn't give her much hope.

About to open the camera app to take a few snapshots of the beautiful London skyline, she noticed the Geocache app down in the corner. Detective Inspector Lestrade had said that the geocache was the first in a series, but there had only been one body. _A series of what_, she wondered. A body and its missing finger didn't exactly constitute a _series_. To Mary, the word implied several caches, not two. Now that she was sufficiently curious, Mary opened the app and searched for caches hidden nearby.

Mary was ready to give up several rotations later. She was hard-pressed to believe that 'Addicted to Caffeine' or 'An Eye for Treasure' would contain severed limbs and their corresponding bodies. Maybe there was only the one body and its severed finger, she amended. Not a whole series of mutilated bodies.

But then this popped up on her final search: 'Punishment'.

Mary gasped. She clicked on the title and as it loaded, she glanced over at John, who was still sulking. The cache popped up on the screen. _Second in the series_, it said. "John," Mary called as she started toward him. "John!" He turned around, confused and annoyed by her call. She shoved the screen at his face. "I think this might be another body," she whispered excitedly.

"Try to contain your excitement," he said dryly. "This is a murder case we're discussing."

"Yes, but _look_, John. Second in the series – and the title is rather suspicious, isn't it?"

"I suppose, but we can't jump to conclusions. We should—"

"Call the Detective Inspector!" Mary urged.

"We can't even be sure that—"

"John. Get that man on the phone. I wish to speak with him."

He sighed, unable to believe that he was always stuck with such bossy companions. John pulled out his phone and dialed Greg's number, only to have it snatched from his hand. It rang three times before he answered.

"Detective Inspector!" Mary nearly shouted into the phone. "What was the first geocache titled?"

"Who is this?" came Lestrade's confused voice.

"It's Mary. John's friend."

"Oh," he said after a moment, remembering her from earlier in the day. "Is John with you?"

"Yes, but that doesn't matter at the mo. I think I might be onto something. Now tell me, what was it called?"

Lestrade seemed to take ages as he debated whether or not the information was confidential, or if he could reveal it to a civilian. Finally, he seemed to decide that Mary was allowed to know since she was with John: "'Justice'. It was simply called 'Justice'."

Mary's eyes lit up, making John curious to know what Lestrade's half of the conversation was. "I think I found the second in the series," she said with a smile. "Get out your GPS, Detective Inspector. We have a body to find!"

Of course, the initial excitement seemed to wear off as the two had to wait the last ten minutes for the Eye to come full circle. But as soon as their feet touched solid ground, they were off at a running pace. John's panting began a little sooner than he had hoped – clearly he had gotten out of shape within the last few weeks… er, month. His days had been comprised of, well, moping around his new flat. There wasn't much to say as far as a thorough workout was concerned.

Despite their best efforts, Mary and John arrived after Lestrade and his crew had. The area was roped off, with several officers keeping pedestrians away. The pair snaked their way around the crowd that was building, curious to know what the latest crime was in their beloved city, toward the 'Do Not Cross' line, where an officer John didn't recognize stopped them.

"We don't have time for this," Mary said, exasperated. "I thought they knew you."

John ignored her comment. "Look, just point us to Detective Inspector Lestrade. He knows us, he'll want our help—"

"I'm afraid you don't have clearance, sir."

"If you could just get Lestrade—"

"I'm sorry, sir, but that's just not possible."

Mary pushed John out of the way and poked the officer in the chest. "Get on your silly little radio and _check with the Detective Inspector if you don't know what you're talking about_."

The officer glanced from Mary to John with a great deal of uncertainty; he grabbed the radio and called in: "Uh… Detective Inspector, I have two civilians who are here to see you…"

"If it's John and Mary, let them through," crackled Lestrade's voice.

Mary's smile spelled out the satisfaction she felt. John raised the caution tape and she sauntered through past the officer. John gave him an apologetic look and followed after her.

Neither of them knew what they were going to find – severed limb, body, something altogether new – but Mary's curiosity was piqued and John hadn't felt pain in his leg since this adventure started. It almost felt like Sherlock was back…

Except as soon as John thought it, he realized that it was entirely wrong. This was nothing like his adventures with Sherlock. John was a child attempting to do an adult's work, and he knew it.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note:** Woops. It's been a while. Apologies!

* * *

1.8

They found Lestrade ankle-deep in a pond, his trousers rolled up as far up his calves as they would go. Donovan had altered her uniform accordingly, standing beside him as they examined a small canister.

"Is that the cache?" Mary asked as they gathered near, clearly disappointed that she hadn't had the chance to hunt for it.

"Yes, we just found it tied to some reeds," Lestrade replied. He opened the lid and carefully dumped the contents into Donovan's outstretched hands.

"Oh, gross," she murmured as a severed finger rolled out.

"Good thing for gloves, eh Donovan?" Lestrade joked. She shot him a dangerous look.

"Ring finger again," John observed, noting the silver band. "So, what? Our murderer is going after married victims?"

"That's our best theory at the moment. Get Anderson on this," he instructed Donovan. He looked into the container again and noticed something stuck inside. Hitting it against his hand, Lestrade knocked free a piece of paper.

"What's that?" Mary asked.

"Coordinates," Lestrade eyed the pair for a long second. "Are you prepared to go on a body hunt?"

John turned to Mary, whose eyes gleamed at the idea. With an almost inaudible sigh, John nodded his head. "I suppose so."

Lestrade turned to his radio and barked out an order requiring the use of a handheld GPS.

Entering the coordinates into the device didn't take very long, and the trio was off jogging through the park. Within twenty minutes the coordinates led them to a small grouping of trees that formed a crooked circle. Lestrade knelt in the center to get a closer look at a small, dark puddle.

"Blood," he said.

"But where's the body?" Mary asked.

John had been standing on the outside of the tree ring, wondering that very thing. The coordinates were exact, but there was no body on the ground, and nothing to hide one with, either. Glancing toward the top of the trees, John saw a shade of red that seemed out of place in nature. Adjusting his view, John's expression turned stony as he simply uttered, "There."

Following his gaze, Mary and Lestrade both looked up toward the branches that hung over the middle. Sprawled across several thick branches was a woman's body, her brilliant red hair matted with leaves and a dark substance that, as far as the trio were concerned, could only be blood.

Lestrade's team came soon after, taking photographs of the crime scene and roping off the surrounding section of the park. Mary leaned against one of the trees, feeling a bit sick – her initial excitement over being a part of this was fading. Death wasn't something to be excited about. Solving the case, however, was. So she put on her figurative detective cap, pulled John aside, and started spouting ideas at him.

"So the murderer is going after married women. He's also strong, or working with a partner, because how else could he get a body up in those branches like that? And again, look at her clothing – that woman is as tiny as they come, so why is she wearing clothing about three sizes too big for her? She's barely five foot and slender as a stick. Must have sliced 'n' diced then tidied up before the move, again. Hmm. At least our murderer is consistent."

"Consistent," John repeated in a mutter. As if anything about these murders was a good thing. "But why go after married women?" he asked. "And why cut off their fingers? Is he trying to tell us something?"

"Giving clues to the police doesn't seem like a wise choice…" Mary said. "Unless he _wants_ to be caught."

"Or he thinks he's doing the right thing." Lestrade said as he appeared beside them, having overheard their conversation. "Remember the caches were called 'Justice' and 'Punishment'. Whoever our guy is, he must think he's enforcing some sort of moral or criminal law on these people."

"Like Batman?" Mary asked. "A vigilante – handing out justice and punishing those who have done wrong."

"I doubt Batman's in London," Lestrade said, chuckling. "But… yes, possibly a vigilante."

"What's the next step? What can we do?" Mary asked.

Lestrade eyed Mary and shook his head. "Nothing. Leave it to the professionals. I know I called you for help, John, but I can't have civilians gallivanting all over our crime scene. Take your girl and go."

And with that, John and a seething Mary were sent on their way.

"'_Take your girl and go'_?" Mary fumed. "What era is this? I thought we had passed all that objectifying women crap."

"I don't think he meant it like that, Mary—"

"John! Never mind that, we have a crime to solve," she said, changing her tone entirely and leaving John staring at her dumbstruck.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"It's obvious what we have to do next, isn't it? We have to see if there's a connection between the two victims. See if they committed any crimes recently."

"But Lestrade said…"

"I don't care what Lestrade said. The way he sent us away gives me half a mind to deliberately do the opposite of what he said. Actually, my whole mind is pretty set on this, John. You might just want to nod your head and keep up!"

Speeding off with deliberate stride, John stared after her. He wondered how exactly this had turned from Mary doing him a favour to being pulled along like a wooden duck on a string. But wasn't that what he did before, with Sherlock? _Come along, John._ He followed. He always followed.

Setting aside his reservations, John's body kicked into gear and he raced after her. He felt responsible for creating this monster, and it was his duty to follow through with it. Wherever it might lead.

"How do you think you're going to find a connection when you don't even know the _names_ of the victims?" John huffed as he caught up to her.

A flash of uncertainty spread across her features as she contemplated this, but her stride never faltered. "I, um," she swallowed. "It has to be on the news, right?"

"And you're going to wait that long? The second body was just found less than two hours ago, Mary. They won't have identified the body yet," John watched her closely as she tried to weigh her options. Finally, after it was apparent Mary had no alternative answer, he added: "Well, it's a good thing I have connections."

Mary's eyes slid to his face, perplexed. "What does that mean?" she asked. "Connections with… with what?"

"I happen to know the morgue attendant."


	9. Chapter 9

1.9

Mary eyed John with a look of obvious disdain as he shoved the end of a hotdog in his mouth, leaving remnants of ketchup on his lips. "I don't know how you can eat in a morgue," she told him.

"What's wong wif a snack?" he asked mid-chew, dropping a significant chunk of bread on the floor.

"Charming," she remarked. "There's nothing _wrong_ with it, it's just… weird. I don't know how dead bodies can make you hungry."

John swallowed. "I always eat when I'm on a case," he shrugged, taking another bite. Mary glanced at him as a million questions popped into her head, but despite her desire for knowledge, she respected the fact that it was a touchy subject for him.

"Fine, have it your way," she amended. John slowed beside a set of push doors and turned to face her. "But who are we seeing?"

In response, John raised his eyebrows and pushed the door open with his backside.

"John! Why are you here?" came a high-pitched voice from inside.

"Molly Hooper, good to see you, too," John said dryly.

Molly's expression turned sour, realizing how rude her question had seemed. "No. Sorry, I-I meant it surprised me to see you here. I haven't seen you since..." her voice trailed off as a stormy expression appeared on both their faces.

"It's been a while, yes," John said quietly. Suddenly he didn't feel so hungry anymore.

Molly watched him with a sadness in her eyes. After a moment, she remembered there to be another woman in their presence. "Sorry, hi," she turned to Mary. "I'm Molly Hooper. I attend the morgue. No, that's silly. It sounds like I frequent this place for fun. I'm the morgue attendant. It's my job to be here."

Mary tried to hide her smile at the woman's awkwardness, but she held out her hand in greeting. "Mary Morstan, here on business."

"Business? Is there something I can do for you?" Molly asked as they shook hands.

"We want to know what _you_ know about the victims in the geocache murders," John stepped in.

"Oh, oh, I see. You're on a case, right? Without–" Molly stopped herself. "Right. I can show you." Turning suddenly, she had them follow her to the crypt. John tossed the rest of his hotdog into the garbage on the way, shoving his hands into his pockets.

There were two occupied tables set in the middle of the room, the bodies hidden beneath a white blanket. Molly stood over one of them and picked up her clipboard to refresh her memory. "Andrea White; female, twenty-three years old. Cause of death: exsanguination."

Mary sent a questioning glace at John.

"Means she bled out," he informed her.

"So you were right after all," she murmured.

"From what I can tell, she died two days ago," Molly said. "Anything else you need to know?"

John had moved to the second table and he stared at the blanket as if he was trying to see underneath. "Is this the body that Lestrade's team found a few hours ago?"

Molly nodded her head. "Yes. The woman's sister reported her missing earlier today and they were able to match up a name to the body." She uncovered the victim's head. "Marilyn Montgomery; female, twenty-five years old. She also died from exsang—bleeding out. I haven't had a lot of time to examine her yet, but the wounds are pretty fresh. I'd say she was killed last night."

"The woman's sister," John began. "Any chance we could get in touch?"

Molly pulled the clipboard close to her chest. "I'm not, I mean, strictly speaking I'm not supposed to give out that kind of information—"

"That's never stopped you before," John stared evenly at her, daring her to say no.

"I, well, yes, but that… he was aiding the police investigation."

"So are we," Mary chimed in.

Molly looked down at her clipboard for a long time before she visibly softened and released her steely grip. She handed it over to John, who wrote the woman's address in his phone.

"Thank you, Molly," John said once he had finished. "Call me if you have any more information." He turned, guiding Mary back toward the doors.

"And John," Molly called after him. He turned to face her, watching curiously as her face seemed to flicker between several emotions, as if she wanted to say something but knew she couldn't. Finally, she ducked her head, and opted for this: "Don't be a stranger, John."

It was in that moment that he realized that he wasn't the only one suffering from the loss of a very important person. John stood at the doors, wanting to do something to comfort her, but knowing it to be an impossible task. Mary placed her hand on John's arm, the touch bringing him back. He cleared his throat. "Right. I'll be in touch."

The duo left through the push doors, John clenching his hands into fists and relaxing them, then repeating the motion. He _wanted_ to be able to help Molly, poor Molly, who pined after – after _him_ – for years, probably, before John had even entered the picture. But seeing Molly again reminded him of all the times that they had gone to her on a case. John could barely remember a time when he and Molly spent any time together alone. Surely she understood that it was difficult for him, that it wasn't personal…

"John, are you okay?" Mary asked again. He stared at his companion's face as if trying to comprehend what she was saying. "John?"

He came crashing down to earth. "The sister's name is Natasha Montgomery. I have the address. You sure you want to go through with this?" he asked.

Mary took a moment to regard him, unsure of his sudden turn, but nodded her head. "Yes. I think so," she said finally. "But, um, can we get in trouble for this?"

John shrugged his shoulders. "Only if we get caught."


	10. Chapter 10

1.10

As the duo made their way to the hospital exit, they both agreed that, since it was far past any reasonable hour to drop in unannounced and ask questions about a sibling's recent murder, they would meet up the next morning instead.

"It's a little hard to believe," Mary said as they walked down the hospital's winding halls.

"What is?"

"That I'm actually here pretending to be a detective, trying to help solve a series of murders…"

"Oh."

"I'm a _teacher_. I'm supposed to be preparing lesson plans and trying to make maths _fun_."

"That's an impossible task," John's quip was met with a playful smack on the arm as he held the exit door open for her.

"How did you get into all of this? It's bizarre that the Detective Inspector would simply ask someone outside of the police force for help like this..." Mary's voice trailed off as she realized that John was no longer paying attention to her. Instead, he had come to a halt, staring at the pavement.

Blood was known to be an especially difficult substance to remove from concrete, and although the blood had been cleaned off the top, much of it had leaked into the porous material. The stain was dark and a painful reminder of how John's best friend had met his end.

"John?" came Mary's voice again. Her hand gently rested on his arm, but it reminded him of the crowd of people who had pulled at John to step away from the body. He jerked his arm away, letting Mary's hand drop uselessly to her side.

The stain was visual proof of the impact he had left on this world, but it was nothing compared to the emotional stain left inside John. His hand shook, but he wasn't sure if it was out of anger or a symptom of something else. Clenching his hands into fists seemed to help a bit, and so he silently repeated these motions to keep them busy.

"I need to go," John said flatly. As he hailed a cab, Mary stood with him silently, wishing she knew what to do. She eyed the pavement with both curiosity and resentment.

A cab pulled up and John offered it to Mary first. Despite her offer to take the next one, John insisted and in the end, his stubbornness won. She watched him from the window until the cab turned the corner and out of sight.

A second cab came down the road shortly. As he slid in the backseat, something about John's demeanor kept the driver silent back to his flat. John paid, took out his keys, and hobbled into his building. That damned leg had begun to feel sore again.

Despite feeling emotionally exhausted, his insides felt like combusting. If he tried to fall asleep, he would surely lie in bed while his thoughts kept him angry and, unfortunately, awake. So John made a cup of tea and sat in his chair with the telly on low. Infomercials seemed to be on every channel, so he listened as the voice told him that they would include an extra set of kitchen knives at no added fee.

John didn't want to think about Sherlock, but he couldn't help it. He thought of his long, slender fingers as they played the violin and the way his dark curled hair looked before he had his morning shower. He remembered the time that John had been bed-ridden with the flu and how he had woken up to a hot bowl of soup that Sherlock had denied making. But Mrs. Hudson had been visiting her sister that week.

Even though Sherlock had been an insufferable dick at times, John knew he would give anything to have him back in his life again.

John buried his head in his hands. He had spent countless days trying to find a reasonable answer as to why Sherlock had jumped. He knew Moriarty must have had something to do with it, but his body had been found – lifeless – on St. Bart's rooftop. If Moriarty was dead, why did Sherlock go through with it?

It didn't make sense to John's ordinary brain. Sherlock would have figured it out within seconds, John was sure. But of course, if Sherlock were here to figure it out, the conundrum wouldn't exist in the first place.

The anger welled up inside him again.

John was tired of the infomercials and the chipper voice overs that promised him great things for only £39.99. He found the remote and pressed the off button, only to realize that the batteries had stopped working. Angrily, he threw the remote in the corner and got out of his chair to turn the television off manually.

He limped to the bedroom and hastily undressed to his boxers. John pulled the covers away, accidentally knocking a pillow to the floor. Feeling irrationally angry about its fall, John picked it up off the floor. He began to take his anger out on the pillow, punching it with all his might and cursing Sherlock for being such a selfish idiot.

Eventually, John calmed down enough to fall asleep, clenching the pillow to his chest.


	11. Chapter 11

1.11

John woke up with the pillow held tight in his embrace. He rolled onto his back and stared at the white ceiling, wondering if he would ever stop missing Sherlock Holmes.

He heard the familiar call of his ringtone and pawed at the side table until he felt the rectangular shape in his hand. The screen glowed brightly in the dark room, causing John to squint in order to see that Mary had sent him a message: _Coffee on me. –MM_

John rolled out of bed.

Though his leg still gave him trouble, he put on clothes and shoes and stuffed his wallet into his back pocket before limping out the front door. He hailed a cab and, as it pulled up to 221 Baker Street, John was pleasantly surprised to see that Mary was already outside with two coffees in her hands.

"I wasn't sure how you liked your coffee," Mary said as she slipped into the cab beside him. "So I ordered black and grabbed everything you could possibly need." She held out her hand, which was filled with various packets.

"Salt?" John raised his eyebrow, noticing the tiny packet amongst the sugars.

Mary laughed darkly. "You never know when salt will come in handy."

Both of them had nearly finished their coffees – sans salt – by the time the cab pulled up to the Montgomery residence. It was a small building with barely enough grass out front to call it a lawn. John disposed of their empty cups in a public garbage disposal before facing Mary with a very serious expression.

"Follow my lead, okay?" He said, and Mary was only too agreeable.

Three raps on the door later, it swung open to reveal a red-haired young woman. Her eyes matched her hair and she clutched a tissue in her hand. "Can I help you?" she asked, her voice sounding rather nasally, allowing John to deduce that she had recently been crying. He felt a bit smug about his quick deduction skills before realizing that it was blatantly obvious. He cleared his throat.

John pulled out a thin black wallet and flashed one of Lestrade's badges that his flatmate had nicked once upon a time at the woman. "Are you Natasha Montgomery?" She nodded her head. "We have a few questions about your sister's murder."

Fresh tears emerged in her eyes as she waved the two inside. A second woman entered the hall and wrapped her arms around Natasha, whispering comforting words to her. After she had calmed down a bit, the second woman turned to John and Mary. "I'm sorry, who are you?"

John flashed the badge again. "Agents Watson and Morstan."

"Oh. I'm Gwen. Come on in, Agents," she said as she led them into a living room. She sat Natasha on the couch and handed her a new tissue. "Please, have a seat." Mary and John sat in separate armchairs.

"I know this must be a difficult time for you…" John began. Natasha let out a loud sob. "But we would be grateful if you could tell us a bit about your sister."

Natasha took a minute to compose herself before she began. "Marilyn was my younger sister. Sh-she came home for the summer from her studies. She was smart. Lovely." She burst into tears. Gwen smoothed Natasha's hair in attempt to comfort her.

John tried again. "Did Marilyn have any enemies? Anyone who was angry with her, maybe someone who wanted revenge, or… or an upset boyfriend, perhaps?"

Natasha shook her head. "No, D-David and Marilyn were very happy together. I can't think of anyone who would want to _hurt_ her." From the kitchen came a teapot's whistle beckoning Natasha to her feet. "Excuse me," she said as she disappeared around the corner.

Gwen was carefully picking at her fingernails, avoiding Mary's watchful eye. She turned a glance toward John and nodded her head in Gwen's direction. John gave a slight nod: _go ahead_.

"Gwen," Mary said, forcing the woman to look up. "Is there anything you want to add?"

Torn, she looked between the two and sighed. "Look, the thing is, Tash doesn't know everything about her little sister. They didn't have the closest relationship," she explained in hushed tones. "For example, as far as Tash knows, David and Marilyn _were_ happy. But they weren't. Not really."

"Can you tell us what happened?"

"Long story short, Marilyn met this guy at a club. They hit it off, exchanged numbers, and that was it. She went home to David," Gwen said.

"Did he find out? Start a fight?"

"No. But they did end up fighting about something else – another in the series of long-winded fights over the pettiest things – and Marilyn…" Gwen paused and bit her lip. "I don't want you to think that Marilyn was a bad person. She did love David, honest, but he refused to work on their problems."

"What did Marilyn do?"

"She called the guy from the club. They got together where they met and from what I gather from a particularly drunk voicemail she left, there were some pretty wild shenanigans going on," she sighed.

"Do you happen to know the name of the club?" John asked.

"Fingers."

The duo exchanged a look.

From the kitchen, they could hear Natasha's quiet sobbing. Gwen, with a pained look on her face, stood. "I'm sorry, but this is too much for her right now…"

"Of course. Thank you for your help. And... we're sorry for your loss," John said.

As they left the house, Mary whispered to John: "The club is called _Fingers_, John. Wonder where our sicko got his idea from, eh?"

John nodded his head gravely.

"Looks like we have ourselves a lead, now, doesn't it?" Mary continued a little more brightly. "Agent Watson, are you ready to go dancing?"

John stopped dead in his tracks. "No. Anything but dancing."

Mary gave him a devilish grin.


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note:** Sorry to leave you hanging, but I have a few chapters lined up, so don't you worry your pretty little heads. ;)

* * *

1.12

The threat of dancing at the club that night hung heavily over John's head. He stared darkly out the cab window as it pulled up to the Scotland Yard. With a sigh, he heaved himself out of the backseat.

Lestrade seemed surprised to see the man limping toward his office. "John," he cried. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

John seated himself in the chair in front of Lestrade's desk, glancing over the paperwork that was spread across it. "Thought I'd ask how the investigation was going," he said absently.

"Yes, well," Lestrade huffed, his hands finding a home on his hips. "That's not exactly your business right now."

John nodded knowingly. "So you don't have any leads."

Lestrade sighed, defeated. "No."

John picked up two photographs, both belonging to the recent victims. "And you've talked to the victim's family?" he asked.

"As a matter of fact, yes. Glowing reviews about the latest vic from the sister. Utterly useless, but glad to know the deceased was studying_ biology,_" he said crossly, staring out the window. John slipped the photos inside his coat, avoiding the detective's notice.

"Biology, hm," John nodded. He glanced down at his watch. "Ah, sorry to leave so suddenly, but I'm running late."

Lestrade looked a little sorry to see him go. "I'll let you know if I need your help again," he said finally.

John said his goodbyes and good lucks before slipping out the door and returning to his cab. He sent a quick message to Mary: _Let the games begin. –JW_

Later that evening, John's cab pulled up at the club. He checked his watch, looked sorrowfully out the window at the line of young people trying to get in, and sighed. John was too old for this. But he made his way out of the cab and strolled past the line right up to the bouncer.

"Back of the line," said the bouncer.

"Ah, yes, well, I would, but…" John stammered, reaching for his detective badge. The bouncer shifted uncomfortably on his feet.

"Alright," he said.

Reaching back into his jacket, he pulled out the photos of the two victims. "Have you seen these women here before?" he asked.

The bouncer took a long look at John. "I've seen a lot of women here; what makes you think I'll remember them?"

"Humour me."

"Yeah, I think I've seen 'em," he said finally.

"Did they leave with someone? A man, perhaps –"

The bouncer interrupted: "Do I look like a fountain of knowledge to you? I don't pay attention to who leaves with who."

"Right. Okay. Well, thanks for your help. Do you mind if I…?" he motioned toward the club.

"Be my guest," he said rather unenthusiastically.

"Thanks," John tucked the badge away, thinking he might have to start carrying it around more often if it gave him perks like this – even if the perk was only a begrudging admittance to a club.

Although he hadn't been sure what to expect of this bizarrely named club, John was immediately overwhelmed. He could feel the music as it beat in his chest and became painfully aware that he would be leaving with a headache. John awkwardly passed through handfuls of young people as they drank, swayed, and flirted, hoping to find Mary.

Spotting the familiar blonde sitting at the bar, John felt relieved. He had been worrying that she would be amongst the throng of dancers and he would be drawn into the chaos.

"Sorry I'm late," John said as he sat down beside her. "You look… beautiful."

Mary frowned as she smoothed out her dress. "Thanks, but it's dreadful. I miss my trousers," she said mournfully. John, finding this amusing, smiled. She glared in return, but he was no longer looking at Mary. Instead, sitting on Mary's other side was a long haired blonde in a frilly red dress talking loudly to the bartender.

"…so then my fiancé wanted to invite his ex, but there is _no way in hell_ I'd ever allow _that bitch_ to come to _my wedding_!" the blonde fumed. She suddenly turned and threw her arms around Mary.

"Uh—" John stuttered, surprised.

"But then my _wonderful_ older sister talked him out of it," the blonde finished, smiling widely as she showed off her sister. The bartender looked away, bored.

Mary squirmed out of her sister's embrace. "John, this is my sister, Diana."

"Lovely to meet you," John said.

"Likewise," Diana smiled. "Bartender!" she called out suddenly, regaining his attention. "I'd like to order now…"

While Diana was distracted ordering a drink, he leaned in closer to Mary. "I thought we were investigating into the murders?"

"We are."

"This looks a bit like a social call."

"Diana's staying with me for a few days and when I told her I was going out tonight, she demanded she come along," Mary sighed, fixing the strap of her dress. "And, regrettably, that she would dress me."

Diana jumped off her stool and stood in between the two as the bartender placed drinks in front of them both. "First round's on me," she announced with a wide smile.

Seeing an opportunity, John pulled the photos he had taken from Lestrade's office from his coat pocket. "Excuse me," he said to the bartender. "Have you seen these two women before?"

The bartender looked at the photos carefully. "Yeah, sure. Both were regulars."

John and Mary exchanged glances.

Mary spoke up this time: "Do you remember the last time they were here?"

The bartender squinted at the two, trying to size them up. "Are you two cops or somethin'?" John flashed him the stolen badge. The bartender shifted uncomfortably. "Don't normally have cops askin' stuff around here."

"We don't plan on making a habit of it," Mary said.

"Right. I… I think those girls were here in the last two weeks or so?" He pointed to the latest victim's photo. "She was here a coupl'a nights ago."

"Do you recall seeing them leave with anyone in particular? Maybe they met someone?"

"Or anything out of the ordinary? Did the girls look spooked, or uncomfortable…?"

The bartender shook his head. "Sorry, I dunno." He noticed customers standing at the bar. "Look, I've gotta business to run. Can I get back to it?"

"Sure," John said. "Thanks for your help." The bartender left their company, leaving the two to brood over the case. "We know for sure that both victims were here at some point, so they likely met the killer here, too."

"But no one remembers seeing them leave with anyone, or anything out of the ordinary…" Mary continued. She bit at her fingernail, thinking.

Diana sighed rather pointedly. "Look, you two can play cops'n'robbers all you want on your own time, but _tonight_ is _my time_ – and that means we're going to have some _fun_," she grabbed them both by the arms, pulling them toward the dance floor.

"Oh, no, I'd rather not, I… my leg…um…" John stammered out half-excuses, but somehow still found himself in the middle of the dance floor. The music formed a heavy blanket over him, all warm and loud and full of strange dancing girls. Mary caught his eye and she smiled, grabbing his hand and pulling him closer to her. He could smell Mary's shampoo as her hair bounced with her movement.

John was very aware of his terrible dancing, but also of his hand entwined in hers, and of the heat radiating from her body. He began to forget about his dancing woes and instead thought of how beautiful Mary looked when she danced, with her cheeks flushed red from the heat and the alcohol.

Maybe this club thing wasn't so bad after all.


End file.
